


Hannibal Ad Portas

by Elywyngirlie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bev is still alive - Freeform, Deviation Season 1 AU - Freeform, M/M, Manipulation, TW: suicidal thoughts, encephalitis, lots of long philosophical conversations, psychic driving, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:52:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elywyngirlie/pseuds/Elywyngirlie
Summary: Will Graham 's encephalitis is caught when Will slips outside of Hannibal's influence. Confronted with this deviation, Hannibal has to change his plans. He has begun his descent into Will and sees no reason to let him go now.





	1. Chapter 1

The battle had turned in a way that he had not anticipated. Will could never be entirely predicted. Giving in to Alana’s advice that something was wrong, that Will wasn’t right, Will had followed her to John Hopkins, outside of Hannibal’s sphere of influence, where they discovered the encephalitis.

 

That sweet feverish smell, cherry blossoms in full bloom, the hint of a humid summer in spring, still clung to Will when Hannibal slipped into the hospital room. Alana jerked awake, a thin smile on her wan face. 

 

“How is he?” Hannibal asked without preamble. Alana yawned, covering her mouth prettily. 

 

“He’s under sedation while they combat the worst of the infection. Antibiotics, fluids, rest. The doctor sad they will draw up an outpatient plan in the next week or so.” 

 

“Did the MRI show--”

 

“They found the underlying tumor and a specialist is going to prep him for surgery once the inflammation has gone down,” Alana replied, the admonishment almost occluded by the softness of her voice. But Hannibal knew it was there. He gave a slight wince, hoping it showed his remorse. Hoping it portrayed a therapist  _ (a friend ?) _ in shock. 

 

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it,” he fumbled, tongue tripping in his mouth, his words stumbling free. Alana frowned and rested her hand on his forearm, reassuring. All hints of chastisement fading away in the dim light of the room. 

 

“The doctor said his body was under serious amounts of stress. He’s prehypertension too.”

 

“All the salt,” Hannibal sniffed, all to aware of how Will loved to stuff fast food in his mouth as he moved between crime scenes. Burnt coffee that he refused to temper with clumpy non dairy creamer. Waxy wrappers littered his car, a confession he tried to hide, hastily shoving them in an empty bag. Fried fish, when he bothered to eat on the weekends. It really wasn’t a surprise that his own body had turned on him, decided to consume him, allowed him to be destroyed internally. Will was entirely too eaten up by what he saw. Sooner or later, his body would revolt. Hannibal wasn’t surprised by the dramatic nature of it. He suspected that beneath Will’s calm veneer was a man who would revel in theatre. 

 

He certainly knew that Will initimately understood the Ripper’s theatrics. 

 

“Does Jack understand how serious this is?” he asked. Alana shook her head. 

 

“He asked how soon he would be out of here.”

 

Hannibal frowned. “It can take up to a year with outpatient therapy to get him back to something resembling normal.” 

 

Alana gave him a pitiless smile. “But weighed against the lives he saved? That he can save?”

 

“His life is not worth less than the victims.”

 

“He would disagree.” 

 

“Just because Will thinks the meaning of his life is found in service of others doesn’t make it true. And we must be the ones that hold up mirrors that show him otherwise.” Hannibal’s grave statement caused Alana to offer a tremulous smile. 

 

“I’m glad he is in therapy with you.”

 

“It’s not therapy. It’s just conversations. However, as we know, conversations don’t stop me from analyzing.” Hannibal threw her a sly wink and Alana laughed. The joke was well worn, thin, traded between psychiatrists, a shibboleth in the profession. 

 

Alana stifled another yawn, lashes fluttering against sweetly freckled cheeks. Hannibal studied her silently, wondering what an affair with her would buy him. It would not buy him Will’s trust, he thought, knowing that the younger man harbored a slight crush on the woman. He thought now, now that perhaps Will’s instability was known, labeled, and treated, that Alana might allow herself to return that affection. He weighed it on his tongue, rolling the taste around his mouth. 

 

He saw several endings and liked not one of them. Better to slip in, to secure Will’s affections, before taking any hasty steps. He thought about the collection of lures he had crafted from Will’s items sitting in his basement. What would he do with them now? The plans of best laid men, he thought ruefully, before turning to Alana. 

 

“You should go. I will stay with him,” he suggested kindly. “I can call an Uber for you.” 

 

“He might be surprised when he sees you here,” Alana protested weakly. 

 

“I am sure he will. But Will needs to know that he is valued and cared for. And that I am truly sorry for missing this.”

 

“It could happen to anyone, Hannibal. I just brought him because his fever was so high and he was shaking. I was thinking meningitis, not this.”  

 

“We did the best we could for Will. Your instincts that something deeper was going on served you well,”Hannibal observed, peppering his expression with a hint of approbation. A professor pleased that his student surpassed him. Alana preened for a moment. 

 

After a brief discussion, Alana agreed to head home and Hannibal occupied her chair in the quiet room, the beeps and hush of the ventilator accompanying in his gloomy thoughts. He wasn’t quite sure how close the FBI was to figuring out that he was the Chesapeake Ripper. He believed the caught a glimmer of recognition in Will’s face when Hannibal hopped into the ambulance and helped repair the kidney that Devon Silvestri had nearly mangled. He was not sure what that glimmer had translated to, however. What conversations it had wrought outside of Hannibal’s considerable influence. 

 

How much did Will trust him now? After he had told Will countless times that it was something mental? 

 

Hannibal hummed to himself softly as he watched the younger man breathing, his face waxy and sweat sheened, and wondered what would emerge from this hibernation. 

 

* * *

“What about my dogs?”

 

It was Will’s first thought upon waking up. It was already late in the afternoon and he wasn’t surprised that Alana had gone home sometime in the night. He missed her reassuring presence. He squinted in the dim room, the ever present headache now a dull roar rather than an insistent scream. His whole body protested as he eased himself into a more upright position. The nurse recording his vitals on a whiteboard, scribbling a smiley face, flicked her gaze over him. 

 

“Your friend said he would feed them before he came back.”

 

“Friend? Dr. Bloom?”

 

“No the European fella. The one who left early this morning.” Capping the pen with a certain finality, she pushed the tray of food toward Will. 

 

“You need fuel to get better.”

 

“Jell-o and chicken noodle soup doesn’t quite count as fuel,” Will remarked dryly. He scratched at his wrist, at the IV digging into his skin, a constant irritation, and the nurse clucked her tongue at him. 

 

“It can be, if prepared correctly,” rolled in a smooth, whiskey tinted voice. Hannibal swanned into the room, wicker basket in hand. Will blinked, his mind still a hazy red, as he took in the well dressed man. Exhaustion still hovered around his face in small, tight lines and if Will’s eyes didn’t deceive him, there was dog hair clinging to Hannibal’s plaid trousers. 

 

“It’s not visiting hours,” the nurse pointed out defensively. She hovered near Will, eyes narrowed, hands on hips. 

 

“Good evening,” Hannibal greeted, turning in one smooth move, before pulling out a plastic laminated card. “Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I am Will’s psychiatrist.”

 

“And you brought him food?” she asked skeptically. 

 

“It’s an unusual relationship,” Will agreed, slumping back into his pillows. He’d be loathed to admit it, but he would rather eat whatever Hannibal brought than struggle with the watery and salty chicken noodle soup and cup of jello. His own exhaustion was evident in his sweat smeared curls and heavy lidded eyes, he was sure. He felt worn, empty, used. Discarded. He could barely muster the mirth as Hannibal charmed his nurse, offering her a cookie, before ushering her out. 

 

“I see your charm still works wonders,” Will murmured as Hannibal removed the plate of offensive hospital food. 

 

“I still have admitting privileges here,” Hannibal said, “and I used them to secure a position on your treatment plan.” He cast a small, concerned, unsure glance at Will. “I hope that wasn’t overstepping our bounds.”

 

Will vaguely waved his hand. “Nah. It’s better you know now as I’m sure I’ll need a psychiatrist later.” 

 

He watched Hannibal unpack the basket and remove the pieces, assembling a plate from the little jars and bowls he brought. He placed the plate in front of Will who took in the food with a small smile. 

 

“You brought me matzoh ball soup?” 

 

“It’s a wonderful meal for you. It’s light, it is low in salt, and it will not upset your stomach. You can drink it straight as well. That is why I placed it in a mug like bowl.” Hannibal was almost defensive and Will swallowed a laugh. 

 

“I’m just surprised that you made something so simple.”

 

“At times like this, Will, simple is important for your body. I assume the doctor also told you about your blood pressure?” Will grimaced as he fumbled for the paddle to lift the head of his bed. 

 

“This is not a lecture I need,” he groused as he spooned some of the matzoh into his mouth. He bit back a groan. It was soft, creamy and sage infused, and he swallowed it quickly. His body craved the warm chicken broth but he forced himself to take slow bites. He drained the mug and placed it on the table with a satisfied sigh. A cup of green tea was placed before him. Hannibal had laid some slices of challah bread and a hard boiled egg on a plate and Will began to munch on the egg. 

 

“What no greens?” he teased and saw a flicker at the edges of Hannibal’s mouth. 

 

“I felt that comfort food was more important today. This is a great shock to your system,” Hannibal replied quietly, his hands twisting at his jacket. It was the biggest display of nervousness that Will had ever seen from the man. Most of the time, Will assumed that he was implacable--either that or he had built forts strong enough to withstand most of the world’s never ending assault. 

 

“Hannibal,” he whispered, unsure. The doctor looked up, his maroon eyes eyes uncertain before flitting away. Will frowned. 

 

“Will I’m afraid I must apologize,” Hannibal began. He opened his mouth, stopped, swallowed, and continued. “I did not treat your complaints of physical ailments seriously. I thought they were stresses manifesting physically in order to force you to slow down. I did not realize the seriousness of your condition. I am deeply sorry that you are in this predicament and am relieved that Dr. Bloom forced you to the ER yesterday. I also understand if you wish to look elsewhere for treatment. With her, perhaps.” 

 

“Hannibal,” Will chided. “The doctor agreed that I was under stress. That I was exacerbating my symptoms by how poorly I was treating myself. You weren’t completely wrong.” Hannibal snorted at that statement and shook his head. He looked as tired as Will felt and a twinge of sympathy wormed itself through him. 

 

“Where’s the dog hair from?” he asked and Hannibal dusted at his pants. 

 

“I took the liberty of visiting your dogs. Alana and I have worked out a scheme for them, I think, while you are here.” 

 

“I hope you didn’t feed them anymore of your sausage,” Will pointed out. “You spoil them.”

 

“Nonsense. Good sausage is a treat, especially when they are experiencing the loss of their alpha,” Hannibal intoned seriously and Will chuckled. 

 

“I should’ve stuck with fixing boat motors in Louisiana,” Will mumbled as exhaustion began its inexorable pull on him. Stomach full, antibiotics and pain medication easing his mind’s attack on itself, sure that he wasn’t alone and that his dogs were cared for, Will didn’t want to fight to stay awake anymore. Relaxation wound its way through him, even as Hannibal’s gaze scoured his face. 

 

“Don’t leave,” Will faintly ordered before he slipped into a dreamless sleep. 

 

Hannibal watched Will doze, his breath growing longer as he fell deeper into sleep, and smiled. Neck offered and denied. Forgiveness granted. Will was more his than he had imagined. 

 

And that offered possibilities that he had not considered last night. 


	2. Chapter 2

There was a rotation of visitors. Alana and Hannibal were regulars with the latter frequently bringing in food that shored Will up for the round of treatments. He would often pick his way through lunch, hanging on to a shred of dignity, chewing at a nail, until Hannibal would glide in, picnic basket in hand. 

 

Beverly came to visit on the weekend. Will barely managed to stay awake for that one, floating in and out of consciousness, hardly able to mutter something sarcastic. Bev looked at him sadly and read the terrible jokes that Price and Zeller had written in the cards. 

 

The surgeon came in. Hannibal sat in the consultation. The tumor was small and operable. They had him scheduled for a Tuesday. Will couldn’t explain why Tuesdays made him nervous. Everything terrible happened on a Tuesday. His mouth felt full of a sawdust, his brain a traitorous muggy thing. Hannibal caught the panic and smoothly moved the calendar around so that the surgery was Wednesday. 

 

Will trusted Wednesdays. At least it was honest in how bad it was going to be.

 

The surgery went well. The tumor was gone. A steady drip of antibiotics, a bright splash of pills with his orange juice in the morning, and again at night, and the offer of painkillers merged his days into a blur. He remembered meals and bits of newscasts and soap operas, of Alana’s wrinkled brow, and Hannibal’s sure presence. 

 

He watched the days tick by, swept away every morning by the nurse, and another one scribbled in hastily. The medications lessened. The rage in his head lessened and he could feel himself breathe. Will would say he could actually feel like himself by feeling his own body less but that felt odd. Shouldn’t he be home in his own flesh? Why had it turned traitor, he mused, disappointed but not surprised by the turn of events. 

 

He said as much to Hannibal one evening when the older man was visiting. 

 

“Always the abandoned boy,” Hannibal smirked as he cut into his dinner. Will frowned. 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he countered, his voice vibrant for the first time in weeks. 

 

“You don’t even trust your own body, Will. You remark that it betrays you. How are you supposed to make progress and fee safe if you cannot feel safe in your own skin?”

 

“It’s not like I’m suicidal,” Will snapped, fork halfway to his mouth, some sort of liver pate speared at the end. At that comment, Hannibal merely raised a brow and Will frowned, fork clattering to his plate. 

 

“How can I be expected to trust my body when I cannot trust my mind?” Will whispered, raspy, tears threatening to spill out. He swallowed and cleared his throat, blaming the pain killers and the wine induction sauce. It was all too much. And he missed his dogs. 

 

“If our mind is how we know the world, and mine is unstable and unreliable, how do I actually know the world?”

 

“By finding a paddle. Someone to support you,” Hannibal suggested. He crossed his legs and placed his hands on his knee. “I know I failed you in some sense, Will, but I--”

 

Will cut him off: “I’m tired of hearing you apologize. You made a mistake. It happens.” 

 

Hannibal pursed his lips and gave a minuscule tilt of his head. “Will, you realize you offer me more grace than you offer yourself.” 

 

Will gave a grumble and played with his food. Red sauce smeared on the plate, dark and viscous, blood splatters that told the story of Mrs. Hobbs...Will closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. He did not, could not, would not relive another crime scene. Garret Jacob Hobbs rose unbidden in his mind. 

 

“See?” the ghoul demanded and Will shook his head. 

 

“I don’t want to,” he murmured. 

 

Hannibal was talking and Will jerked himself out of the darkness that reached for him hungrily.

 

“It is true that the self is less rational than we understand it. It makes odd associations, quixotic leaps that we then explain later.”

 

“How do you confront that then?,” Will asked softly. He felt Hannibal’s gaze on him and the doctor didn’t answer. He rummaged in  a basket and pulled out a carafe, pouring two neat cups of tea before placing one in front of Will. He then offered a dark chocolate torte, a tantalizingly thin sliver that only brushed Will’s taste buds before it was gone. 

 

“That is an orchid oolong tea. The slight oxidation pairs well and brings out hidden flavors in the dark chocolate,” Hannibal supplied. 

 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Will prodded as he took a sip of the tea. His brows raised in appreciation and he knew Hannibal caught the movement. 

 

“Some suggest an intellectual hostility,” Hannibal said. “A confrontation of the stories that we tell, while realizing that we are telling stories about the stories we tell ourselves.”

 

“Sounds...complicated.”

 

“It can be. It requires a good partner and a surrendering of one’s self.” 

 

“How do I surrender myself?” Will asked, suddenly unsure. He nibbled on his bottom lip, wincing as his teeth pierced flesh and blood welled in his mouth. He saw Hannibal’s nostrils flare and Will took a sip of tea, hoping to wash out the coppery flavor. 

 

“I, uhhh, could use with some chapstick,” Will mumbled, cheeks flushed. He could feel the weight of Hannibal’s gaze, a dark interest that coursed over every inch of flesh, a butcher looking at a prized pig. Startled by the association, Will jerked his head up. 

 

“We can start tonight,” Hannibal said almost demurely. He licked his own lips and Will frowned at the desire rolling off the other man. He never really thought about Hannibal’s inclinations but there was something heated in that look. He shifted in the bed, body protesting the slight movement, and cleared his throat. 

 

“How would we do it?” 

 

“First off, we must be completely honest with one another,” Hannibal instructed, slipping on that familiar therapist mask. Will could see him sink himself, that placid look on his face, unruffled and faintly amused. 

 

“You must be honest with me then,” Will pointed out and Hannibal inclined his head. 

 

“Tell me Will--when was the most honest you ever felt in your skin?” 

 

The overhead lights buzzed in the silence and the beeping of Will’s heart monitor was louder than before. Will stared at his hands, at the IVs poking his skin, at the lines tying him down. He licked his lips, blood smeared tongue dragging over cracked flesh. Hannibal inhaled sharply.

 

“When I was killing Garret Jacob Hobbs,” Will whispered, words so soft that only he could hear him. But he couldn’t escape the joyful shudder that racked his thin frame. Nor could he ignore the flare of pleasure in Hannibal’s eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh, well this might be a Dark! Will story. 
> 
> The idea of intellectual hostility and the "stories we tell about our stories" comes from Adam Philips' Terror and Experts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wonders what meaning his life has as he recovers and Hannibal prods him into a new direction. 
> 
> CW/TW: Suicide ideation, suicidal thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally did not forget this work! New jobs, new life--it eats up everything! 
> 
> TW: Suicide ideation, suicidal thoughts 
> 
> Tags updated.   
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Release had come easier and earlier than expected. A return to whatever constituted normal, however, still seemed a distant dream. His vision wavered, the house a boat on a tumultuous sea, and Will put his hand out--

 

Only to be met by the solid wall of Hannibal’s office. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, hoping that Hannibal did not hear the frightened intake of breath, air wheezing into a trembling frame. 

 

“Per our conversation earlier, I was pondering the relationship between revenge and forgiveness,” Hannibal was speaking to his wine cabinet as he hunted for something that he could offer Will. Will fumbled toward his usual chair, vision blurry, and he collapsed with a huff. 

 

He was trying too hard to regain his sense of normalcy. His doctor had warned him not to push himself, to hire a dog walker. But no, Will had to tramp through the woods everyday this past week, his faithful pack yipping at his heels. He needed the feel of it: the damp fur between his fingers, the mud squelching beneath his boots, the cool wind biting back the fever that he felt as if he could never escape. 

 

“Will? Are you alright?” Hannibal asked, concern in every line, body pitched forward. Will nodded and swallowed thickly. 

 

“I am still...unmoored from myself,” he replied, pushing each word out. Swiftly, Hannibal crossed the room and pressed a glass bottle of sparkling water into Will’s hand. 

 

“Drink this,” Hannibal ordered as he returned to his desk to extract his medical bag. He hunted through for a few items and Will took comfort in the cold fizz sliding down his throat, in the routine of having his temperature checked, his blood pressure measured, his breath heard. Hannibal made notes in his careful, neat hand, a low purr emanating from his chest. Will cocked a brow. 

 

“Purring? Are you pleased or puzzled?”

 

“Would it be remiss of it to admit that I’m both?” Something like guilt escaped from Hannibal’s eyes and Will ducked his head, ashamed. 

 

“I am finding your body’s stubborn resistance most fascinating. However, I believe based on what you said earlier that you merely over exerted yourself, Will. You are confined to low level activities, are you not, outside of therapy?”

 

Will mulishly pressed his lips together and looked at the heavy curtains that hid the faint blush of spring. He loved the smell of the forest as it revived itself each year. A resurrection devoutly to be enjoyed. 

 

“Are you committing a form of suicide by pushing yourself, Will? Is this revenge for some sort of perceived weakness?” 

 

“Are you asking if I need an intervention, doctor?” Will stammered. Hannibal placed his pen on his desk, returning to his liquor cabinet to pour out the wine he had been decanting. He stripped off his jacket, remaining in his vest, while taking a sip, rolling the wine around and inhaling deeply. He looked like a man in supplication, Will thought, taking a hasty swallow of his water. He ran a hand along his heated brow and pushed down the rising panic. 

 

“Do you?” Hannibal returned, settling himself in his seat opposite. Will frowned. 

 

“This is a very...casual look for you.” He tossed out the distraction; as if sensing his intent, Hannibal offered a toothless smile. 

 

“I feel as if it’s only owed, Will. I saw you in your rather dashing hospital gown. You can see me more casually, for once.”

 

“I wasn’t aware you did casual. Is that two courses then?” Will knew he was teasing but he couldn’t stop it. He clung to the banter with Hannibal. It gave him hope in the rising sea of desperation that a part of his mind still was his, that he could still make sense of the world--that it was knowable and understandable. Otherwise he’d be reduced to a screaming rage, fingers digging out that broken, useless, betraying brain of his. 

 

How he loathed his own mind. How he typically hated it, Will ruminated, taking another drink of the San Pellegrino. But this hatred was different. It was a low banked burn, a disgust at his own weakness. 

 

Perhaps it was a form of revenge, he thought. 

 

“Sinners in the hand of God,” he murmured softly and Hannibal crossed his leg, looking pleased. 

 

“In the hand of an angry God,” Hannibal added. “Are you feeling puritanical tonight Will?”

 

“I suppose most people would say I’m always puritanical.” He kept his tone light, hoping it came out as a joke. But Hannibal only nodded gravely. 

 

“Yes, I can see that. Living a penitent life, alone except for homeless dogs. A refuge for the unwanted. But I cannot see what penance you think you must be paying. Unless, of course, your empathy compels you to serve punishment for those with whom you empathize?” 

 

Will regarded the garnet depths of Hannibal’s glass and longed for a sip of cool, cloying wine. But he was under strict orders. No alcohol for six months. Not even a beer to parch a dry throat after a long day in his stream. Nothing that would exert his already broken body. He had to ease himself back into the world of the living. 

 

He wanted to throw himself from it instead. 

 

As he stood outside his own life, trapped in that hospital bed, picking at a thin blanket, Will had wondered what his life was for. Jack argued that Will was a vital source for the apprehension of criminals, of the most depraved sort of human. Will wondered what it meant that he could understand those depraved men (it was almost always men, a statistic that the FBI drummed into its cadets head every orientation). As Garret Jacob Hobbs slumped against his cabinets, his life pooling around him, Will saw the desperation, the loneliness, and the ever consuming love. A love he now carried for Abigail. 

 

Was it a fungus or something truly born of a desire between them? 

 

He was forbidden from knowing, his own mind shuttered to him. 

 

Facts that plagued him as he waited and watched daytime TV, wondering why Will Graham still occupied this life. He could leave. Start over. Be someone and something else. 

 

Boat motors were always in need in Sugar Loaf. 

 

“Will?” Hannibal asked, leaning forward. Will started. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed. He flashed a grim smile. 

 

“I took a class once in college, a literature one. It was required. The professor suggested that Edwards didn’t mean that God dangled us over the hellfire. That he held us in his hands--sinners  _ in _ the hand.”

 

“And what did you think of such a revelatory reading?”

 

“That emphasis changes the meaning of everything. That wherever we direct our attention, there we will find our reward.”

 

“A garden of eden in our time. From our work.” 

 

“Yes. A reward for giving of ourselves.” Will’s voice had dropped to a whisper and he toyed with the nearly empty bottle in his hand. 

 

“And to what do you give your attention, Will?” Hannibal’s voice was equally as soft, sinuous in the dark. Will shivered, clammy hands on his neck. He brushed at it, the sensation not quieted with his gesture. 

 

“I give my attention to death,” Will replied. “To all of the darkness in the world and in men.”

 

Hannibal leaned back, leather creaking. He pursed his lips, eyes drifting around the room and Will found himself eager for his pronouncement. He gripped his knees, hands damp from the sweating bottle, and he licked his lips. 

 

“Does that make you an angel of vengeance? Or the hand of the angry God?” 

 

Will opened his mouth to protest that reading when Hannibal held up a hand. 

 

“And if you are an angel of vengeance, a Michael, for what god are you working? What is your reward for all of your penance and smiting of evil from the world, Will? Do you see that you are creating a better world?”

 

Will swallowed loudly. His ears rang with the oddity of this conversation. But he allowed himself to be pulled into it, allowed his anguish to sound in his hollow voice.

 

“No, I only bring more misery.” 

 

“Then why do you continue on this path?”

 

“Jack will never let me leave it.” Even Will could hear how petulant he sounded and he winced. He did not mean to sound as if he were held prisoner but the words held truth. He could feel it reverberating along his spine. Jack controlled Will’s future at the bureau. 

 

But was that a future he wanted anymore? 

 

Hannibal pitched forward, eyes fastening on Will’s face. Will felt himself ensnared. Caught in the maroon gaze and for one moment, his mind whispered:  _ predator.  _ Will batted it aside. His brain was a liar and a thief. He would not trust it. 

 

“Will, you have been afforded a chance to craft a new life. If you could seize that chance, what would you do with it?” 

 

Hannibal’s quiet words dogged Will on his drive home, as he stood on his porch to watch his dogs frolic in the frosty spring night, and as he hastily reheated dinner from a casserole that Alana had dropped off two days ago. He spooned the chicken and rice in his mouth and allowed himself to consider. 

 

What would he do with his chance? 

 

Heaving a sigh, he opened his laptop to map the best route to Sugar Loaf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know that I've never made a true casserole? Except for a french toast casserole. 
> 
> Nuts.   
> I'm assuming a chicken and rice one is one that exists.

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal Ad Portas is Latin for Hannibal is at the gates. It's a Roman saying that they would use to try to scare people, given General Hannibal was one of their boogeymen. Apparently they liked to use it to taunt their children.


End file.
